


Out Of The Ashes

by sweetlovegone



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Post-Mockingjay, Post-War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-04
Updated: 2015-12-08
Packaged: 2018-01-07 11:54:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1119524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetlovegone/pseuds/sweetlovegone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"We kneel in the ashes of his loved ones and lament everybody we’ve lost in the last two years." A series of One Shots depicting Peeta and Katniss growing back together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Starting Over

It starts the day we go to the bakery. Or rather the ruins of it.

There is nothing there, really. Some rubble left over, the foundations barely intact. Just an empty space, where once had stood the home where he’d taken his first steps, eaten his meals every night, did his homework. Now nothing more than a layer of ash covering the ground.

I hadn’t been sure about him going, but he hadn’t had a chance to say goodbye. And it went without saying that he needed me there – the look in his eyes when he asked me ‘please’ was enough to sway me.

We walk hand in hand to the town, or what is left of it. People mill around, picking apart rubble, throwing remains into trucks to be buried in the surrounding area. We quietly manoeuvre without much notice; so much for the famous star-crossed lovers from District Twelve. Now we are nothing more than a pair of broken teenagers trying to piece our lives back together.

We’ve recently been spending more time together. He’d come over for breakfast and dinner, and then started staying longer into the evenings. We’d watch television, on different sides of the couch at first, but it didn’t take long for me to find myself hesitantly curled up in his lap whilst he absent-mindedly stroked the charred remains of my hair. It’s been about a week since we started sharing a bed again – tentative at first, but I remember waking up this morning to the sound of his heart, and I remember being so thankful for it.

When we arrive at the bakery, we stand in silence for a while. I used to be able to read him so well, but he is a blank canvas to me now. I don’t realise I am staring at him until he turns to me, his blue eyes shining with the ghosts that lived here. His face crumples, his shoulders sagged, his body erupting into a fit of sobbing. He kneels on the floor, tears streaming down his face, and I kneel beside him, wrapping my arms around him. They shook with his body, and I feel him clinging to me, as if I am the one thing keeping him from going over the edge. We kneel in the ashes of his loved ones and lament everybody we’ve lost in the last two years.

Eventually his sobs begin to quieten, his body stills, his breathing deepens. He turns to look at me, his blue eyes ringed with a violent red. I don’t even realise I am crying until his fingers stroke across my face, wiping the tears away. I feel his arms slide around me and pull me close, so I am able to faintly smell the cinnamon he must’ve been baking with this morning. I feel his lips touch the joint where my neck and shoulder meet and am taken back to the middle of the night, on a train when I couldn’t sleep and wanted nothing more than him to hold me and chase away the demons that plagued my conscience. Warmth radiates throughout my body, a welcome sensation, and I hold him tighter to me if that’s possible. He whispers in my ear that he misses them and I promise him that we’ll remember them. That we’ll make their deaths count by living well. He pulls away to look at me, the ghost of the boy who held me in the cave lingering in his eyes and in the hint of a smile on his lips. He leans forward and I meet him halfway. We kiss for the first time since the mayhem of the Capitol, sealing our promise. I then place a kiss on his forehead, before weaving my fingers through his and pulling him to his feet. He takes a last look at the ruins of his childhood home, of his old life, and then follows me to start a new one. 


	2. Keep on Moving

We start spending more and more time together after that. He stays at mine every night, and we wake up regularly to the sound of one another’s screams, followed by quiet words of comfort that remind us the world of our dreams is gone. Sometimes it works; and sometimes it is a bitterly painful reminder of the people we lost with that world. But his arms hold me close and remind me of what I still have, which makes it bearable.

He is usually awake before me and has made breakfast by the time I venture downstairs. Afterward I go to hunt and he goes home to bake. I spend my days traipsing the woods of my childhood, the ghosts of my father and hunting partner never far behind. Whatever I manage to shoot down becomes our dinner, but sometimes I get ahead of myself and catch too much, resulting in a trip to my old mentor’s house. He’s usually found in his yard, feeding the small army of geese he’s been acquiring since our return, or passed out on his couch. This time he is heading in as I arrive, and waves me to join him.

As soon as I close the door he’s opening up his latest favourite type of alcohol, whiskey. I place my game bag on his counter, pulling out the two squirrels for him, when he pipes up, “So what’s with you and the boy?”

“What do you mean?” I try to sound as neutral as possible.

“Your little arrangement - him going round your house every day. Cooking you dinner, going into town holding hands. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

“What about it? What’s it to you?” I say, more severely than intended.

“I was sent back here to look after you, sweetheart,” he says. His voice then quietens, “I just want to make sure you know what you’re doing.”

The seriousness of Haymitch’s tone lets me know his concerns are genuine. It stops me for a moment because I don’t know what to say. I’ve tried not to put too much thought into mine and Peeta’s relationship up until this point – I did that before and all it did was cause uncertainty and pain on both sides. And there are moments when I’m with him and feel genuinely content, even happy for a few seconds. My mind wanders to this morning we were eating breakfast together, and once he had finished, his hand slipped under the table to find mine, tracing patterns into my skin. Of course I’m still terrified; that he’ll wake up and just leave, that he’ll slip back to the way he was before he came home. But he takes his medication every morning, as do I and we keep on moving. I tell myself I will cross that bridge if I come to it, and only then.

“I know you love him sweetheart. Anybody could see that,” he says. I can feel the tears springing to my eyes. “But he’s never going to be the same person he was.”

I feel the tears free fall down my cheeks, mourning the loss of the boy who would make jokes on his deathbed and confess his love for me in the most offhand way. Now replaced with a boy whose laugh is difficult to come by, who’s constantly asking for permission to hold my hand or kiss me.  Haymitch crosses the room and pulls me into an awkward hug and I respond, because he must miss that boy too.

“No, he’s won’t ever be the same person,” I say, pulling away. “But neither will I.” Haymitch doesn’t respond to that, so I leave his game on the table and head back home.


	3. Promises

The darkness is all-encompassing, and sometimes I let it fool me into thinking that none of it happened. That when I open the closet door again my little sister will be sitting on the bed, smiling and persuading me to tell a story like I used to. The difficulty is the silence – I can hear every sob and noise that escapes my body, filling the tiny space I’ve squeezed myself into.

I’m not sure how long I’ve been here, but from the ache in my back I can assume a while. Peeta had gone back to his house to bake and I was looking for more paper for him to sketch on later when it happened. A school project fell out in amongst various pieces of scrap paper that she did, full marks. Just the sight of her handwriting was enough today, and the next thing I knew I had squeezed my way into this cupboard in what was my mother’s room.

After a while, I hear footsteps. Loud and clumsy, they are surely his. His paces are quick, frantic, and I can hear him calling my name. I don’t respond. He comes up the stairs now; I hear the opening of doors down the hall coming ever closer. The door to the room opens and he calls my name again, coming in. I try to open my mouth but nothing comes out, I’m avox mute all over again. I shift slightly and he must hear, because then his footsteps are immediate and light fills the closet, exposing my curled up form. He must see the tear tracks on my face, my shaking body and know, because then I am lifted into his arms and he settles me on his lap. I cling to his shirt and bury my face into his chest, hiding from the world. His arms encircle me, rubbing soothing circles into my back, caressing my hair and whispering in my ear. I can’t focus on the words but the sound of his voice comforts me.

I let it take over then, my wails filling the room, my whole body shaking with the strength of it. He holds me tight, sheltering me, and I cling to him, knowing if I let go I may not come back.

But I do; the whimpers begin to quieten, the shaking less so, my breathing regulates. I can now register the cramp in my legs, the way his hand feels on my back, the worry in his eyes. I look up at him and I feel his fingers brush away tear tracks from my face, lingering hesitantly.

“I’m sorry,” I breathe against his chest. He smiles sadly.

“You don’t have to apologize for anything,” he says, gently kissing my forehead.

“Yes I do,” I say, my voice clearer now. “So much.”

“Katniss-”

“You shouldn’t have to do this, I’m not the one who was taken by the Capitol and-” he winces and I decide not to continue with that sentence. “And when you were rescued and came to Thirteen you had nobody. And I should’ve been there for you, I should’ve helped you no matter how badly you treated me but I didn’t. I just ignored you and made everything worse and I’ll never forgive myself for it.”

He shifts so he can look at me properly. I can’t tell what he’s thinking; he’s closed himself off again. “Katniss, I don’t blame you at all for what happened in Thirteen. And you don’t realise how much you helped me.”

I am about to speak again when he cuts me off, “You did. I know those times you came to visit were … draining, but it was only after seeing you and speaking to you in person that some memories came back. Nobody else could have triggered some of those memories. Like the bread.”

Although I’m sure he’s trying to spin a positive light on me, what he says makes sense. Nobody else knew about that encounter; not even Prim. I’d always kept our first meeting to myself, so I had to have been the trigger for that memory.

“And on the mission, I was so prepared to die but you didn’t kill me. You kissed me instead. You may have acted like you’d given up on me but you didn’t. I wouldn’t be here if you had. And I know about before I was rescued. What you made Coin promise. Haymitch told me.”

This startles me. “What did Haymitch tell you? When?”

“During your trial, when he wasn’t there, he came to see me a lot. I was in the hospital. He told me about a lot. Like your tendency for small hiding spaces,” he gestures to the closet. I grimace. “Not just when you were in Thirteen but before too. Little things, like when you made him promise to keep me alive in the arena. And then he mentioned something about us sneaking off somewhere a couple of days before the Quell and it helped me remember the roof.”

“What do you remember?” I ask cautiously.

“I remember suggesting we go up there for some privacy. I remember us going to order a picnic and you ordered two servings of lamb stew – you said you would order the cheese buns but they wouldn’t be as good as back home. Then we went up to the roof and you got restless so we played a game for a while. It all gets a bit hazy but I remember playing with your hair and how relaxed and happy you looked. And you fell asleep for a while and you slept like you were happy too. I remember just wanting to stay there forever.”

The way Peeta describes it; I can almost hear the wind chimes and the sound of the force field being hit as we played our game. “So did I.”

He smiles at me a little sadly. “After Haymitch told me about everything you did for me, I knew I had to come back here.”

“I’m glad you came back,” I say in a small voice. His eyes meet mine, searching me although I’m not sure what for. He leans forward, his hand going to brush my hair away from my face, but then I feel his lips on mine. I respond but he pulls away abruptly, and when I open my eyes to meet his, I can see him poised to apologize, so I quickly press my lips back to his. He seems taken aback but soon reciprocates, his lips parting and deepening the kiss. I feel his hands cradling my face, my hair a dark curtain as my fingers thread through his curls, my other hand resting against his chest.

All too soon, his lips leave mine, but I linger pressing my forehead to his, breathing him in. I then feel myself almost collapse against him, drained from my breakdown. He steadies me, holding me to him so carefully, like I’m made of glass. I might as well be, with how fragile I’ve been of late.

After a while, my stomach begins to protest, and I realise aside from a small breakfast Peeta insisted on, I haven’t had any food all day.

Peeta chuckles, “C’mon, let’s get some dinner.” He braces himself and lifts me up with him. I would normally protest that I’m perfectly capable of taking myself downstairs, but I still feel delicate so I loop my arms around his neck as he carries me downstairs. He deposits me on the couch, puts a blanket over me, starts a fire up and then goes to the kitchen. He soon comes back with a mug of what I can only assume is hot chocolate. We’ve tried to let go of anything that reminds us too much of the Capitol but this is one of the few things neither of us can resist.

“You’re spoiling me,” I say smiling, but Peeta doesn’t smile back. He kneels beside the couch so we’re on the same eye level, and tucks some loose hair behind my ear. The gesture is familiar, a comfort to me.

“How’re you feeling?”

“Better. Much better. Thank you.”

A small smile plays on his lips, “Anytime.” He kisses my forehead and then heads back to the kitchen. I stare at the fire whilst I listen to him bustling around. I can hear him humming, slightly out of tune but it makes me smile all the same. I’m not sure how long it takes, but eventually he comes back in with two bowls of lamb stew. I sit up and tuck my legs underneath me so there’s room for him. We eat in comfortable silence, and when I’m finished I place my bowl on the table beside me before curling up next to him. He seems surprised to find my head on his shoulder but then he smiles warmly. His arm encircles me, pulling close and then his hand starts rubbing soothing circles into my back. It only takes a few minutes for my eyelids to start drooping. I hear Peeta’s voice whispering soothing words in my ears, comforting me.

* * *

 

I know immediately that I’m not where I was, and wake with a start. Peeta is there, his hands on either side of my face, forcing me to focus on him.

“Shh, you’re okay. Katniss, you’re okay, I promise. I just moved you up to your room, it’s late.”

I focus in on my surroundings. Peeta’s right. I’m in my bed, dressed in what I was wearing earlier, the room dark except some light streaming in from the hallway. Peeta is kneeling beside my bed, his eyes anxious.

“You fell asleep on the couch and you looked so peaceful, I didn’t want to wake you so I carried you up here.”

I nod, calming down somewhat. My breathing slows and I lie slowly back against my pillows again. “Thank you.”

He takes my hand, giving it a gentle squeeze before going to get up, but I grip his hand tightly, refusing to let go. He looks at me, confused.

“Katniss, what is it?”

“Please just … please don’t go.” I whisper, pleading with my eyes. Today has been particularly bad and I know the nightmares tonight will be even worse. The thought of facing them alone, when he’s been so close to me all day, terrifies me. “Please stay.”

His face softens at this. He sits on the edge of the bed and I shift to make room for him. He climbs in, keeping a safe distance, letting me dictate this. I shuffle close to him, resuming our old, familiar position. I rest my head on his chest so I can hear his heart, resting my right arm across his torso. His hand meets mine, threading his fingers through my own so our intertwined hands rest against his body. His other arm encircles me, holding me to him, making me feel safer than I have done in months. He whispers a word but I don’t have to pay attention to know what he’s saying.

* * *

 

I wake up to the sounds of the birds outside, singing their songs in the early spring light. I am confused at first as to why the window is open, but I realise Peeta must’ve gotten up in the middle of the night. This is a small comfort to me; it’s something the old Peeta would’ve done. I’m surprised that I didn’t wake up by his movement or from nightmares last night. I feel rested for the first time in months, and I know a large part of that is to do with the sleeping boy inches away from me. I find myself staring at him whilst the sun rises in the sky. My eyes tracing the burn marks that cover his skin, a reminder of the fire that almost burned us both to ashes.

 His eyes flutter open after a while. He seems confused by his surroundings at first but then looks at me smiling. “No nightmares.”

I shake my head. “You?”

“One. But it wasn’t nearly as bad as some of the ones I get.”

I frown, “Peeta, I’ve told you, you should wake me if you have a nightmare.”

“You looked so … tranquil. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“It doesn’t matter. If you have a nightmare you should wake me. Promise me you’ll wake me next time.”

“Okay,” he says, taking my hands in his and pressing his lips to them. “I promise.”

I smile, press a kiss to his forehead and sit up, ready to get out of bed. His eyes panic, “Where are you going?”

“I was going to go to the woods and hunt. Like I do every morning.” He nods, although I can tell he’s a little disappointed. “I’ll be back in time for lunch, I promise.”

We head downstairs together. I collect my bow, sheath and game bag and meet Peeta by the front door.   
“I’m going back to mine to do some baking. I’ll be back for lunch though.”

“Okay. Make me some cheese buns. And don’t forget to bring over some pyjamas. You can’t sleep in your clothes every night.” It may not have been the boldest ask or declaration but Peeta understands the enormity of what I’ve implied and what it took for me to do so. We’ve always talked in code this way. His face breaks into a beautiful smile as he pulls me in for a light kiss. A part of me wants to stay in that hallway with him but the sensible side of me knows a trip to the woods after yesterday is just what I need. I pull away, smiling and squeezing his hand before heading out the door, my step lighter than it has been in months.


	4. Absence

I wake up screaming, covered in a layer of sweat. My throat is hoarse, my mouth dry. I instinctively reach over to where he should be, but I find an empty space. My heart sinks and I remember where he is now. I try and remind myself it’s a good thing, that it means he’s getting a new leg that he can walk on comfortably, have his medication adjusted to match his improved mental health. But it doesn’t make me miss him any less.

I ignore the voice in my head telling me it’s the middle of the night and instead tiptoe down the stairs to the phone in the hall. I find the number he left for me of the place he’s staying up there, scrawled quickly in his cursive hand. I dial quickly before I can change my mind, greeted by a very sleepy sounding receptionist. I ask for him and she puts me through to his room, but not before reprimanding me that it’s the middle of the night and he is probably asleep. I know otherwise.

The phone rings a few times before I hear his sleepy voice on the other line, “Hello?”

“It’s me,” I say, feeling instantly relieved just to hear his voice. “Did I wake you?”

“Not really. I was sort of drifting in and out,” he pauses. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“No,” I say quietly. _Not without you_ I add in my mind. “What did they do today?”

“Just some more tests really,” he says. “They fitted my new leg though.”

“Is it any better?”

“Much better. This one doesn’t dig into the joint. They said it grew uncomfortable because I grew apparently. 2 and a half inches.”

I’d never really noticed a change in Peeta’s height since we were reaped all that time ago, but now I think about it he’s definitely more filled out. At sixteen he was broad-shouldered and strong but still had a boyish look about him. Now at eighteen and a half he looks so much older – although I’m not sure if that’s because of natural reasons or what we’ve been through.

“I’m glad. We can go back down to the lake again now.”

“That’ll be nice,” he says, sounding genuine. I can tell from his tired voice and occasional yawns that he hasn’t been sleeping well at all, but I don’t pry; it’ll only make me worry more.

“I miss you,” I whisper so quietly I’m not even sure if he can hear.

“I miss you too,” he replies. “And I’ll be home soon.”

The thought brings a smile to my lips. It wasn’t until he left for the Capitol last week that I realised how much he’d come to be a part of my life. And how much he’d come to mean to me over the past months. It wasn’t that I couldn’t survive without him – I got up and cooked and went hunting everyday just fine without him. But I don’t think I’d laughed properly since the night before he left. My nightmares have returned with a vengeance, and I’ve found myself locked in closets at various times in the last week. It isn’t that I need him to basically function – I need him to pick me up when I’m falling off the edge, to piece me back together when I shatter, to remind me of the good things in our world.

“I should let you try and sleep,” I say. “I just wanted to talk to you.”

I can almost hear the smile playing on his lips, “That’s okay. I told you, whatever time of day, you can call me if you need me.”

“Thank you,” I pause, trying to hang on to him for a few more seconds. “I’ll see you soon?”

“In 72 hours I’ll be back in District Twelve, I promise. I’ll get on the first train I can.”

“Okay. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight Katniss.”

I crawl back under the covers but barely sleep. Buttercup comes in and curls up on the bed beside me, a small comfort to help me through the darkness.

When dawn breaks I force myself out of bed; Peeta usually rises at this time to bake and so I’ve become accustomed to doing so too. I go to the woods, wandering rather aimlessly. I shoot a few squirrels and trap some rabbits, and when I notice the sun directly overhead I make myself head back to the house. I’ve left Delly alone the whole morning, and as Peeta would say, I’m being a very impolite host. He invited her to stay to give me some company whilst he was gone. She’s spent a lot of time in town where I’ve accompanied her some days, overseeing the reconstruction of the square, helping me cook and one day I even took her to the woods. She was transfixed, and I had to remind myself that Delly had never left the boundaries of Twelve, and since its bombing had spent her life living underground. There were times when I just wanted to be left alone to myself, but overall I’m glad she is here; she has Peeta’s old light-hearted energy that I appreciate.

She’s bursting with news about the medicine factory that’s due to open next year here in Twelve, bringing all sorts of employment opportunities and investment in. I smile and nod along. Twelve is still tiny in comparison to the other Districts; most of the people who lived here before have moved back but only a handful of outsiders have decided to move here. The Capitol is still sending in food and has set up temporary shelter until the majority of houses are built. We’re told that in two years the District will be booming – for now we quietly keep on going.

We spend the afternoon in the garden Peeta and I have been working on for a while now. The Primroses he planted have started to bloom, shining bright in the spring sunshine. There’s still a chill in the air, reminding us that summer is not quite here yet, but their yellow bloom reminds me of better things to come.

Delly is quieter out here. I think she appreciates the outside now she’s set up home in Thirteen. They’re still trying to clear out the radioactive waste in hope that above ground will one day soon be habitable, and if not the new government will have to relocate hundreds of people. I don’t ask why she chose to stay there instead of coming home and she doesn’t ask about mine and Peeta’s relationship – like him she’s good at knowing what to say.

We head back inside at about sunset and I start cooking when the phone rings. Delly picks it up for me but doesn’t offer it to me, so I can only assume it’s her little brother who’s somehow managed to find out the phone number. She stays on for a couple of minutes before practically skipping through the kitchen over to me.

“That was Doctor Aurelius,” she says, beaming. Needless to say, I’m confused.

“Is it about Peeta?” I say, suddenly panicked. Delly pats my arm reassuringly.

“Yes but it’s not bad, I promise. They finished his tests early. Doctor Aurelius saw him off on the train about two hours ago.”

“You mean-”

“He’ll be home by tomorrow morning.”

Before I can stop myself, I burst into a huge smile and clasp my hand over my mouth. _He’s coming home. This time tomorrow he’ll be home._ For some reason there had been a part of me that didn’t quite believe it. That something would go terribly wrong and he’d have to stay there. That he’d realise he was better off there and away from the ghosts that haunt us here. But he didn’t, and for the rest of the evening I can’t stop smiling.

I try to sleep but it’s no use. I toss and turn and when I do drift off I am met by the jabberjay mutts from the Quell screaming the sounds of my loved ones dying. The difference is that in my dreams, his screams are there too.

I stay in bed until the sun is rising in the sky, tinting it a brilliant pink colour, and then allow myself to get up. I take my time in the shower, knowing he won’t be getting in until mid-morning and not wanting to rush. I wash my hair twice, realising the state I had let it get to whilst he’s been gone. It’s getting longer now, so I’ve been able to start braiding it again even if only just. Peeta likes it down though, so I let it hang for today. I make myself breakfast quickly, leaving Delly things out for her to make. Since she’s on a holiday of sorts from Thirteen and doesn’t have to stick to a particular schedule, she doesn’t usually rise until mid-morning anyway.

I leave at just gone eight, far too impatient to sit around in my house any longer. The air is crisp this morning, and I hear a few birds singing from the woods. I don’t remember them last spring, but, like us, they seemed to have returned and tried to start again.

The square is starting to gain activity, the rebuilding for the day getting under way. I allow myself a quick look at the site which is to hold the town’s new bakery, which Peeta will run with some help. We both agreed it would be good for him to have the bakery but full time might be stretching himself. He’s been excited the last few weeks, talking about the plans over dinner and showing me his sketches and designs. I worried that it would hit too close to home, but if anything he’s seemed better since the idea was proposed. And I’m willing to go along with anything if it means he gets better.

The station is practically deserted. Most people in Twelve stay put and have the remnants of their family here too – it is only those who’ve moved in that seem to travel at all, probably to visit relatives or see more of the country now we’re allowed free movement between Districts. Well, the majority of people are. My restriction to District Twelve still stands, even though Doctor Aurelius admits I’ve considerably improved, and was never particularly a threat to anybody in the first place. “Too unhinged” were his words.

I’m not sure how long I sit on the bench before I hear the faint sounds of the train. It feels like hours but I know it must be at the most forty-five minutes. I watch for it to pull around the corner, and when it does I find myself standing searching for him through the windows as it pulls up at the platform. It grinds to a halt, the doors open, and a handful of people step off the train, but none of them are Peeta. My eyes frantically search in case I’ve somehow missed him, worried he’s already left the platform or I got the time wrong and he wasn’t on this train at all – but then I see a train attendant haul off the suitcases I helped him carry to the station over a week ago, and he limps off the train, graciously thanking the attendant. They exchange a few words before the attendant gets back on the train and it pulls away, headed to the end of the line; District Thirteen.

It’s not until the train pulls away that he turns around and I let myself move toward him. I start running toward him, breaking into a huge smile, and it’s only then he notices me. I barely register his reaction before I crash into him, locking my arms around his neck. I feel his arms hold me so tight it feels like I can’t breathe but I don’t care. He’s here and in my arms and that’s all I care about for the moment.

I raise my head enough to rest my forehead against his so I can check his eyes for any sign of pain, any signal for a flashback, but they’re bright and clear. I lean toward him and he meets me halfway, my right hand slipping down to rest against his cheek. I lose myself in him and his kisses, so urgent compared with those we shared before he left. It takes me a few minutes, but then I remind myself where we are and reluctantly pull away and rest my head against him, taking in his familiar smell. I can feel his lips in my hair, his hands running up and down my back soothingly. For the first time since the train pulled away over a week ago, I feel safe.

“How did you know I’d be here?” he asks, pulling away to look at me, confused.

“Dr Aurelius rang after he saw you off.”

He shakes his head, “I was going to surprise you.”

I smile. Of course he was. “It’s okay. You’re home now and that’s what matters.”

“I’m glad I’m home,” he replies, kissing my forehead before untangling his hands from my hair and going to get his suitcases. I notice him swaying and struggling slightly on his new leg and take one for him. I take his hand with my free one and lead him out of the station. People in the square smile at him, at us, comment on how nice it is to see him back. He replies politely, smiling and thanking them but we don’t linger – both of us just want to get home as quickly as possible.

Delly is sitting on the couch reading through some paper of sorts, but squeals with delight when she sees us entering. I let her and Peeta embrace and catch up whilst I put his bags away in my room upstairs. When I come back I find he’s immediately back in the kitchen, sipping on tea whilst Delly talks about our week. I sit quietly beside him and drink the mug he prepared for me, listening to Delly make out that I was the most wonderful host. I grimace into my mug; she’s definitely exaggerating. There were some days when I lost myself in the woods and left her to fend for herself most of the days, but of course Delly spins it into my providing us with some of the best meat she’s ever tasted. Peeta takes my hand under the table and looks at me confused and slightly worried when I look down. I meet his eyes and try to smile reassuringly – he must’ve thought I was spiralling down. Delly says something that I don’t hear and gets up to leave, much to Peeta’s protest.

“Oh Peeta its fine, I have things to do in town anyway,” she smiles brightly. “Besides I’m not leaving until the end of the week, so we have plenty of time to catch up.”

I silently thank Delly in my head for giving us some time with each other. Peeta sees her out the door and I move to the couch, sprawling myself out. He laughs at me, a wonderful sound, and then shifts me so I lay on top of him, his arms holding me tight, guarding me from the world. We don’t talk – we have plenty of time for that. Instead he strokes my hair and I trace patterns on his hand, feeling myself relax into him. I can feel my eyes drooping, and he whispers in my ear to go to sleep. I try and argue with him that it’s getting on to midday, and he promises that he’ll leave me a few cheese buns out for when I wake up. The thought makes me smile but instead I tell him that he needs rest too, and make him instead promise to stay with me and not leave the couch. I let myself drift off peacefully for the first time in over a week, sure of his reply before it even leaves his lips.


	5. Good Days and Bad Days

When I’m finished in the shower I pull on an old pair of pants and one of Peeta’s shirts that have managed to find their way into my drawer. It hangs off of me, reaching down to the middle of my thighs unless I tuck it in, but it’s comfortable and I know it annoys him slightly when I do wear it. His lingering scent is also somewhat of a comfort to me, but this I keep to myself.

I head downstairs, following the smell of breakfast which Peeta is surely cooking. He smiles warmly when I enter the kitchen, raising his eyebrows when he notices me wearing his shirt but he doesn’t say anything. I go to find my bow and arrow which I store in the cupboard.

Peeta comes to the door, shaking his head, “I wouldn’t bother Katniss. It’s pouring outside and I checked – it’s set in for the rest of the day.”

I groan and look outside the back door just to confirm what he’s said. Sure enough I can hardly see ten feet in front of me from how hard it’s raining and a low rumble of thunder shakes the house. I’m surprised by how quickly it came on; before I got in the shower it was cloudy, sure, but the clouds were light and seemed to promise clearing later on in the day. Now I’m stuck in the house with no hope of being able to hunt later – although it had been difficult at first with the ghosts of my father and former hunting partner lingering, it has become almost part of my therapy. I always feel better, refreshed, after coming back from the woods.

I sigh and go back to Peeta who’s making eggs and toast with the bread he baked yesterday. He wraps an arm around my waist and I lean into him, but he isn’t looking at me. Instead he stares intensely at the egg he’s frying, and I can tell from his tense body the look in his eyes that he’s having a bad day and could easily be on the verge of a flashback. I help him finish off the egg he’s cooking and then make him sit down and eat. He tries to protest but I’m insistent and take over the cooking whilst he picks at the food. When I turn back to him with my breakfast done his head is on the table, his hands pulling at his hair. I put the plate on the side and immediately rush over to him, pulling out the chair beside him.

“Peeta? Peeta look at me. _Please_. Peeta it’s not real. Whatever you’re seeing, it’s not real.” I don’t get any response out of him. His breathing quickens. I take one of his hands, prising it from his hair and hold it in both of mine. I can feel tears welling up in my eyes but hold them back. In times like this I have to be strong for him, just like he is for me when the situation is reversed.

I squeeze his hand tightly, placing a kiss on his knuckle, “Peeta?”

He stiffens when my lips touch his skin. Slowly, he raises his head and turns to me. I can see tracks down his face from his crying, his eyes filled with so much pain and anger. I’m worried that I’ve stepped over some sort of line, that I’ve triggered whatever it is in his brain that tells him I’m a mutt. But then he looks at me – really looks at me – and something inside him clicks. His face softens, his shoulders sagging as he comes back to me. I loosen my grip on his hand and he brings it up to cup my cheek, his thumb running over my skin. I lean into it, pressing my lips to his palm. This seems to erase any trace of anger in his eyes, instead now replaced with guilt and sadness. It’s almost worse than the flashback.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice shaking. Before I have to watch him cry I lean across and embrace him, tangling my hands in his hair before I start falling off the edge too.

“You don’t have to be sorry for anything Peeta,” I tell him.

“You shouldn’t have to-”

I cut him off. “Remember what I said in the tunnel?” I’m worried bringing up the war, the Capitol, any of those memories will set him off, but I need him to remember. “We protect each other.”

He nods slowly, recollecting the words. I lean back to look for any signs of a flashback but none of them appear. “So this is me protecting you. And when I have bad days you protect me. And that’s okay.”

He seems to ease slightly but I can still see a hint of apprehension in his eyes. Before he was such a closed book to me – now I can read him easily. If our situation was reversed he’d think of some articulate way of convincing me everything was alright but I’m still no good with words. So instead I kiss him, softly at first, but then he starts to respond and I can’t find any good reason to stop. His hands untangle my still damp hair from its braid and weave through it, mine resting against his chest. I pull myself as close to him as possible and even then it’s not enough.

Peeta is the one to break the kiss, his breathing ragged as his lips leave mine. I don’t pull away, instead tentatively placing a kiss where his neck meets his shoulder. I look up into his eyes which are shining now, not with tears but something else, an emotion I cannot quite describe as anything other than desire. It’s something I’ve seen more in him since spring began – and I can’t quite help but notice I’ve felt it too. Like sometimes when he comes out of the shower in merely a towel because he’s forgotten his pants and I find myself staring a little bit too long. This always results in him making a snide comment and a pillow thrown at him in protest but he has a point. The thought of this, as well as my sudden awareness of our position, makes the blood run to my cheeks and I lean back away from him slightly. Of course, he notices and smirks which causes me to untangle myself from him and go to move away, but he grabs my hand and pulls me into his lap, wrapping his arms tightly around me. I decide it’s no use in trying to protest, and I don’t particularly want to either, so I curl up against his chest, glad that he seems to be back to himself.

“Thank you,” he says, placing a kiss on my temple. I squeeze his hand in response and we sit like this for a while; his arms around me, keeping me safe and holding me together. He seems calm now and I relish in this moment that seem to occur less recently. We’ve somehow become busy; if there wasn’t a storm Peeta would probably be down in the town working out plans for the new bakery, I would be out in the woods or with Greasy Sae, trying to repay her for all that time she spent keeping me alive. I owe so many people my life, but none more than the one whose arms hold me right now.

After a while we clear away what would’ve been breakfast and I find myself flipping through our memory book. We’ve been working on it since that day at the bakery but it’s been a while since we made any new additions. After the additions of the twenty three tributes that Haymitch mentored we had done everybody important. I find myself lingering on the page of Peeta’s family, thinking of how they’re all gone and he never got a chance to say goodbye. Seeing the bakery gave him some form of closure, I know, but he must still miss them. He doesn’t tend to talk about them, but I’ve noticed little things; when we were baking at his house a month ago and he happened across an old recipe written in his father’s handwriting. He turned away with what I’m sure were tears in his eyes. That was our last addition to the book.

Peeta comes and joins me on the couch, setting two mugs on the table next to us. He notices the book, the page I’m on and looks at me concerned. His eyebrows furrow as he tries to figure out why I’m staring at the portrait of his father, the recipe, my writing of how he gave me those cookies what feels like a lifetime ago.

“Katniss, what’s wrong?”

“Don’t you miss them?” I say without thinking. It’s a stupid question; of course he does. “I mean, you handle it so much better than I do.” This is true. I can’t go a week without locking myself in a cupboard because I couldn’t save her in my dreams, or I happen across a piece of her schoolwork amongst a pile of papers.

“Of course I miss them,” he says slowly, trying to pick the right words to say. “But my relationship with my family was so much more complicated than yours with Prim. I know I loved my father but he was always busy in the bakery, he didn’t have much time for any of us. So it was just me and my mother and brothers. They were fine, but they teased me a lot and after a while it just got tiresome. We weren’t very close. And my mother…” he pauses, wincing. And suddenly it clicks in my head.

“She didn’t just hit you for burning the bread that day did she?”

He doesn’t reply, but his silence says everything. I think about how sometimes Peeta would come into school with long sleeves on, even in the summer and how he’d shrug it off, laughing if someone asked like it was no big deal. I remember various cuts and bruises on his hands and face, how he’d say he and his brothers had been wrestling and it had gotten out of hand. No wonder Peeta was always so good at acting in front of the cameras; he’d been pretending for most of his childhood.

Eventually, he breaks the silence. “She was still my mother.” I don’t reply but take his hand, squeezing it. He looks up at me, a small sad smile forming. “I think I’ll always miss my family in some way. They were all I had, really.”

“You’ve got me,” I say in a small voice.

His eyes change, filling with warmth, his smile genuine. He presses his forehead against mine and kisses me, warm and soft. When we pull away he lingers, stroking my cheek absentmindedly, trying to extend the moment. It’s so rare I say anything like that and Peeta knows this, so he clings to it whilst he can. I’m not complaining – his touch soothes me and I find myself relaxing into him, closing my eyes.

I must fall asleep, because next thing I know the sun slanting in through the window is coming from an angle that suggests it is mid-afternoon. Normally when I nap during the day I wake up to find Peeta gone, out or baking in the kitchen. But when I wake up this time his arms still hold me; he’s moved me so he’s sitting up, sketching, whilst I lie across him, my head resting against his heart as usual. He notices me stir and puts whatever he was doing down. He strokes my hair as I come to, and the first thing I look for is his eyes. They look much clearer than earlier, almost normal again. He smiles down at me and I can’t help but smile back, that warm feeling spreading out from my chest.

“No nightmares,” he comments. It’s true; Peeta is there every night to hold me through my thrashing and screaming but it’s been so long since I went a sleep without a nightmare. I feel oddly refreshed and rested.

“You didn’t have to stay.”

“I didn’t mind. You looked so peaceful… like you were happy.”

I have felt so many things over the last few years, but none of them happiness. The last time I remember being truly happy was when my father was still alive; a particular memory of him singing Prim and I to sleep after a day in the woods comes to my mind. After that it was always about survival – I didn’t have room for much else. It’s different now, without the loom of the games or the pangs of hunger that were always present. Every day then was a struggle; now they seem to slip by without much notice. Of course there are days, so many of them, where my sister’s death hangs over me, days where I can’t stop crying for all the people I’ve watched die.

But then there are the good days too. And they’ve been more frequent of late. Days where I wake up in his arms to the sight of a warm smile and bright eyes. I’ll hunt in the morning whilst he bakes, and then in the afternoon we sit out on the green in the Victor’s Village, my head in his lap whilst he paints or reads. His hands eventually find their way to my hair, lazily braiding whilst he tells me about the rebuilding around the country. Sometimes Haymitch is out in his yard feeding the geese and throws comments our way about things that ‘don’t need to be seen in public’. But there’s always a twinkle in his eye that suggests he doesn’t really mind.

I catch myself smiling and am brought back to the room, an immediate rush of guilt hitting me. He notices, whispering in my ear about how that’s okay, that they would want us to be happy. And I know he’s right. They didn’t die for us to live half-lives stuck in front of the fire, being practically force-fed and only leaving the chair to go to the bathroom, barely surviving. And I know that without the boy lying beside me that would probably be how I would spend the rest of my days. On his good days, his positive outlook is so infectious it’s difficult not to smile with him. On his bad days, when he has an episode and I’m worried this time he’s gone too far, he always comes back to me, giving me hope that we’ll be okay. Gale was wrong; I can survive just fine alone. But Peeta is the hope that allows me to laugh and to smile, to go outside and just be in my woods. He reminds me of everything we’ve been through and that we can still grow into something good out of the ashes of our loved ones.


	6. Painting

I’m watching him paint into one of the bedrooms in my house we’ve converted into a studio of sorts. It’s an especially sticky and hot day – so much so I’ve begrudgingly stripped down to shorts and a tank top and Peeta’s taken his shirt off altogether. I’m not keen on baring my skin, even now when my scars are faded slightly, but I don’t mind so much when it’s just a day for us and we barely leave the house. Peeta’s skin is burned and scarred like mine, a patchwork of the old and new. We were both offered more treatment to make the scarring less extensive, but we decided against it. Our scars would serve as a reminder for what we’d seen. And that despite everything we’d survived.

He always says I can do other things whilst he paints, but in truth I like watching him. His expression is concentrated, but his eyes are always clearer, and I know he finds painting therapeutic. I can almost see him relax as he loses himself, dabbing his hands in the colours to find the right shade, sketching and painting the afternoon away. Sometimes he lets me see what he’s painting but today he’s being secretive. Sometimes he glances at me, catching me staring at his eyelashes or the scars that cross his chest and I end up looking down, feeling myself blushing which I curse. He just smiles and turns back to painting without a word.

The afternoon has faded into early evening by the time he finishes, leaning back with a satisfied sigh. I perk up and ask if I can see. He shyly nods and beckons me over, so I drag my chair over beside him.

What I see shouldn’t really come as a surprise, but it does all the same. Peeta, who up until this point has mostly painted scenery, ruins and meadows and the lake I took him to a few weeks ago, has painted me. It’s a moment I remember – I was sitting out on my front porch with him as we watched the sun set, streaking the sky with brilliant pinks and oranges. Haymitch had been feeding the geese in his front yard, and we laughed as they chased him, begging for more. Peeta has painted me smiling from laughter. My hair, now reaching below my shoulders hangs loose and straight and far healthier than a few months ago; I’m sitting up, one leg tucked under the other, my skin scarred and radiant, my grey eyes bursting with laughter and happiness.

I can feel his eyes on me, and I turn to meet the, anxious but curious, “What do you think?”

My gaze flicks between him and his creation before I answer, “You’re far too nice to me. I don’t look like that.”

He doesn’t say anything, just grabs my hand and pulls me across to sit in his lap. “You do to me,” he says. His arms encircle me and pull me tight against his bare chest. “You’re beautiful.”

I resist my natural urge to bury my face in his chest and avoid this kind of conversation, but I know that he deserves better than that. “I’m all scarred and broken.” My voice is barely a whisper.

I feel his hand under my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes. I expect him to reply with some form of a confession of his undying love for me but I have to remind myself that is the old Peeta. This one instead, smirks a little bit and holds out his prosthetic leg, “So am I.”

I close my eyes, shaking my head and trying to suppress a smile. I feel his forehead on mine and then his lips, gentle at first before deepening as I respond. My hands clasp around his neck, and I feel one of his hands tighten around my back, pulling me closer to him. Lately, whenever we’ve kissed, I’ve felt the same hunger I felt in both arenas. Except now there aren’t any cameras or bleeding wounds to distract us, so I let it coarse through me, holding him to me as tight as possible. I shift my position so we’re on equal levelling, causing Peeta to steady himself on the table behind him, breaking our kiss for a moment. I pull him back to me, and feel his hand on my face, accompanied by the feeling of wet paint being smeared on my cheek. I pull away suddenly, which confuses him, and glance to his hand. He follows my gaze and then must notice the mark on my cheek.

“Oh god, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-…” I don’t hear him over the laughter that bubbles up inside me. I’m not sure why it’s so funny; maybe because of the shock in the moment or his worried reaction. He sees me laughing though and smiles, shaking his head at my reaction. It takes me a moment to calm down, but when I do I kiss him again, just the once, and rest my head on his shoulder, content.

“This paint better wash off, you know.”

He chuckles, “It should.” His arms then loosen from me, but I cling closer. “I should go cook dinner.”

I begin to protest, but then my stomach decides to answer for me. He laughs again, kissing my forehead and shifting. I go to get up, but instead he wraps his arms around me and lifts me up with him. I loop my arms back around his neck as he carries me down the stairs, turning on the lights as we go. He sets me down in the hallway so I can get the mail that we neglected to check during our day together. I flick through the envelopes, some addressed to me and others addressed to him.

It wasn’t a decision really. It started off with him sleeping in my bed to chase the nightmares away. A shirt mixed with mine, and then he got a drawer and then four. Two toothbrushes instead of one, his own shelf in the medication cupboard, a bedroom converted into a studio for him. It was so seamless I didn’t even realise it happening until it was too late. Not that I mind. He brings a quiet new energy to the house, breathing life into it. The kitchen constantly smells of baking, the television is usually on in the background for the news, and the phone rings more now it’s used by two people. Before it felt like a shell I simply manoeuvred in; now I come back from the woods to the warm sight of the lights blazing from the window, to the smell of cooking and to warm hugs and gentle caresses. We managed to build a home together amongst the ghost of my little sister and troubled memories which all too often threaten to break me. But he’s always there, piecing me back together, reminding me that I’m not alone.

 


	7. Blue Skies

Deciding to take Peeta to my lake should’ve been a difficult decision, one I took time to think about. But instead, it was a stifling morning, far too hot for me to go hunting and too hot for Peeta to bake anything. We lie in bed until mid-morning, something we don’t do often enough. Peeta is lazily tracing the scars on my knee and despite the warmth, I am curled into him pretending to be asleep. I hear him sigh.

“I know you’re awake Katniss.”

My eyes snap open to find myself inches away from a grinning Peeta, “Knew it.”

I scowl at him and close my eyes again, turning away from him in protest. I can hear him chuckling behind me and feel his arms around me. I ignore him at first, but then I feel his lips in my hair and on my neck and he becomes too hard to ignore. I turn to face him, scowling to make a point. It’s difficult though; his eyes are a clear blue and his smile is genuine, his body relaxed. Today is a good day.

“I don’t think I’m going to bake today,” he says. “What are you going to do?”

“It’s too hot to hunt,” I remark. He nods and looks at me patiently whilst I’m thinking. That’s when I think of the lake and how refreshing it would be to swim in it after enduring this heat for over a week now. “But I have an idea.”

I lead the way, Peeta following behind carrying our picnic. I don’t have to turn back to know he’s okay; Peeta’s tread is as heavy as ever, which is something I’m thankful for now. However, after a few days where he’s had to scour the woods to find me hiding up in a tree when I haven’t come home, he has become better at manoeuvring them. He keeps asking me where we’re going, but I ignore him and carry on. It takes a couple of hours, but eventually the trees clear to reveal the lake that was mine and my father’s, sparkling in the sunshine.

Peeta catches up to with me and stands next to me, looking out at the lake in wonder. I realise he must never have seen anything like it before.

“My father discovered this place,” I say without thinking. I don’t meant to continue but the words keep flowing. “He used to bring me out here in the summer when I was little. It’s how I learned to swim. We’d hunt in the woods on Sundays and then come here for lunch. Afterwards we’d go for a swim.”

This is the first time I’ve spoken about my father for years to anyone. I never even told Gale that I knew this place because of him. My father was always mine, and somehow I felt like if I shared him or our stories with anyone that it would somehow tarnish them. But for some reason it feels important to tell Peeta about my father.

“I remember the last time we came here. It was late in September and he wanted to make one last trip down before the cold weather hit. It was colder than today but I didn’t care. We swam for hours and then ate what we’d caught. And then he dug around and had bought two cakes from your dad. Said all the extra hours he’d been doing all summer had paid off. Of course he had two for my mother and Prim as well. And then-” My voice catches. Peeta’s attentive expression immediately turns to worry and I feel his arms around me. “And then he promised we’d come back on my twelfth birthday, maybe convince Mom and Prim to come out too, make it special. Three months later he was dead.”

That’s when the tears start, and I let them flow. Despite my father dying nearly seven years ago I have never cried about him. I never had the chance. After he died it was all about survival. There wasn’t room to mourn him, not when I had to find food to eat for me and my family.

My tears turn into full on sobbing and I cling to Peeta so I don’t lose myself. I’m not sure how long this goes on for, but I know it’s more than a couple of minutes. Eventually though, as always, my sobs quieten. My breathing regulates. The world stops spinning. Peeta’s eyes come back into focus.

“I’m sorry,” I breathe against his chest. He shakes his head, pressing his lips to my temple.

“You don’t have to apologise,” he says. I take a few more moments to compose myself and then lead him down the grassy bank towards the lake. We lay out my mother’s old blanket that I brought with us and I stretch out in the sun. Peeta stays sitting, taking in his surroundings and I follow his gaze. The sky is a rich blue today and the lake water is sparkling as the sun bounces off of it. Wildflowers poke out from beneath the almost-yellow grass and the green mountains beyond.

“I wish I had brought my paints,” he muses. I smile a little and reach into the basket I packed this morning with sandwiches and things Peeta made yesterday. I figured he’d want to capture this.

His eyes widen and he smiles in thanks, and then immediately picks up his pencils and begins sketching. I watch him for a while, as his page blooms with colour to replicate the scene in front of us. At some point my head comes to rest on his shoulder whilst I watch him, but he doesn’t complain that I’m in the way.

After a while of this, he puts his paints down and we eat our picnic; turkey sandwiches from the one I shot down yesterday with bread Peeta baked. I picked some berries along the way which we dig into as well as some cheese buns I couldn’t help but bring along. When we’re done I lie back on the blanket and close my eyes whilst he finishes up his painting. I must drift off at some point because when I wake the sun is lower in the sky and Peeta’s lying down too, his painting finished. I pick it up to have a closer look, still awed even after all this time with what he can do with a handful of colours. Of course it’s beautifully drawn and accurate, but I’m always surprised by how well he’s able to capture the atmosphere of a place. The picture looks so peaceful, a place untouched by the violence that’s affected our lives.

“What do you think?” he asks from behind me, sitting up.

“It’s perfect,” I reply. He smiles, uncertain.

“I wasn’t sure I could do this place justice. It’s beautiful,” he turns to me. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

“You’re welcome,” I say, leaning in and pressing my lips to his. It’s slow and soft, and when he pulls away I almost immediately lean back in before the glimmer of the lake catches my eye and I remember why I brought him here in the first place.

“Do you want to go for a swim?” I ask, my forehead still pressed to his. His expression changes from serene to unsure.

“I don’t think I remember how,” he says, his eyes suddenly far away, trying to sort through his memories and come up with something real. Before he gets too lost in his own mind, I take his hand and give it a squeeze.

“That’s what I’m here for,” I say, and before he can respond I’m pulling him to his feet and heading down to the water, stripping down to my underwear as I go. The lake water is cool and feels so wonderful on my skin after weeks of relentless heat. Peeta follows in hesitantly, and it’s only when I turn around to face him that I’m conscious of how exposed I am. To be fair, my night clothes of late haven’t been any less revealing than what I’m wearing right now, but out here in the open with the sun beating down I feel far more vulnerable. I try to ignore it though, taking his hands and leading him so he’s in waist deep. I go over the leg and arm movements I taught him in the Quell and surprisingly he remembers them easily. His leg makes things a bit trickier but we make it work after some practice. We still stay in the shallow area so that he can touch the bottom if need be but soon enough he’s swimming on his own, his arms doing a lot of the work to compensate for his leg.

We mess around in the water for a while, swimming across and floating on the water. At one point, in the shallow water, he splashes me accidentally but it turns into a full on water fight that ends with me in his arms, laughter bubbling up from my chest. He interrupts my laughter with a kiss that I sink into, wrapping my arms around his neck as he pulls me even closer to him. I lose myself in him, in his arms and his lips and I can’t think about anything but the lack of clothing we’re wearing and our damp bodies pressed together. Eventually I have to come up for air but this doesn’t stop him, and he continues his kisses along my jaw and I let out a small gasp as he kisses the sensitive spot behind my ear. I pull him back to me, a hunger that only Peeta can satisfy coursing through me. I wrap my legs around his waist, his hands on my back and in my hair and I’m just wondering how far this is going to go when he trips and falls backward, sending us both tumbling into the water.

We both erupt in a fit of laughter and I splash more water in his direction before running back up to the grassy bank, collapsing on the blanket, Peeta not following far behind and dropping down beside me. We lie like that, giggling on the blanket for a few minutes before we are able to control ourselves. My cheeks ache from smiling so much and my stomach hurts from laughing. I allow myself to look at Peeta now I’ve calmed down and he’s beaming at me.

“You look so happy,” he says, tucking a loose piece of hair behind my ear. A few months ago, or on a bad day now, this kind of thought or comment would overwhelm me with guilt, that I shouldn’t, was not allowed to be happy when so many of our loved ones are dead. But right now, I know that this is what they would’ve wanted, what they died for. They died so people could feel this way, could feel free and happy without having to constantly worry.

So instead of turning away or crying from guilt, I burrow closer to Peeta, and his arm automatically curls around me. “I am happy.”

We lie like this for a while, drying off in the sun. When the sky starts to turn Peeta’s favourite colour, we pack up and head back home through the woods, hand in hand. I feel lighter than I have in weeks, years really, and I try to cling to it knowing that a nightmare or a flashback will probably have taken it by tomorrow.

We spend the evening by the fire. Peeta makes a simple supper out of grains and other herbs I gathered yesterday and we curl up on the couch together watching the TV. When I start to drift off, I feel Peeta gently lift me into his arms and carry me upstairs to bed. He sets me down on the mattress and is just about to leave to go to the bathroom when I reach out, grabbing his hand.

“What’s up?” he says, kneeling so we are at eye level.

I shake my head, “Nothing. I just had a good day.”

He smiles, stroking my hair. “Me too. Thank you for showing me the lake. It’s beautiful.”

I smile back, “We’ll go back. You should see it in the winter, when the lake’s frozen over.”

He presses a kiss to my forehead, “I’d like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I watched Mockingjay Part 2 and those end scenes got me all fired up about post-war everlark so I'm going to attempt to finish this fic off. There should be at least two more chapters following this one. Hope you guys enjoy!


	8. Real

The early morning light streams in through the open window filling my senses. I’m almost sure I closed it the night before, but Peeta must have risen to open it again. A light breeze fills the room which is welcome; despite being September the heat is unrelenting. Peeta is normally awake at this hour baking, but he sleeps soundly beside me now, lightly snoring. I make a note to tease him about that later.

  
For now I take comfort in just watching him as he sleeps peacefully. Peeta doesn’t thrash and scream like I do, but I can tell when he’s having a nightmare. His expression becomes pained, his hands curl into fits and his whole body tenses. His expression now is tranquil, a small smile playing on his lips. He looks so young when he sleeps that I can almost believe that the past two or so years didn’t happen, that he is still the sweet sixteen year old boy who held me through those cold nights in the cave. But the burn scars on his exposed chest soon remind me of everything that has led to this point.

  
It would’ve happened anyway, I think. Maybe not before the games, but after we reconciled on the Victory Tour we were always headed in this direction. Somewhere between dancing at parties, nights on the train and stolen moments on a rooftop I grew to care for this boy lying next to me in a way I’d promised myself I would never care about anyone. The Quell and Snow’s capture of him only made me more aware of this, if anything strengthened those feelings that were then brutally crushed by a pair of hands locked around my throat. What Snow didn’t account for was Peeta’s inner strength and determination to claw his way out of that darkness. And it is his strength that gave me the courage to start piecing together my shattered heart and to feel again. My feelings for him never really went away if I’m honest; after he was hijacked I just buried them under my heartbreak and then I was numb to all feeling after she died. As soon as he returned home and I saw him planting those bushes for her by my house though, something awakened inside me. What I had been waiting for had finally come home to me.

  
Peeta shifts and his eyelids flutter before slowly opening. His expression is blank for a second, until he takes in the sight of me and feels me beside him. His eyes widen for a second as the memories of last night come back to him – the kiss on the couch that never stopped, the fumbled journey up to our bedroom and the pile of clothes now strewn across the floor. I can’t help but smile and when Peeta notices he looks confused but smiles back. Neither of us says anything, so we lie together and bask in the quiet of the morning. I can feel him stroking my hair, like he did in the cave all that time ago, and I close my eyes. His hand comes to my cheek and I lean into it, pressing my lips against it. He goes to take it away but I catch it, threading my fingers through his. I open my eyes and stare at our intertwined hands and the difference in tones. Despite the light tan Peeta has developed over the summer from coming to the lake with me, his skin still looks pale compared to my darkened olive tone. I can feel him watching me and I know I can’t ignore him forever. I look up into his eyes, today the colour of the ocean, clear and deep blue.

  
“Last night. Real or not real?”

  
“Definitely real,” I say, looking pointedly at his shirt strewn in the doorway. He looks in the same direction and I feel his chest shudder with laughter, a wonderful sound. I look up at him, his eyes sparkling and can’t help but grin back at him.

  
“You don’t … hurt or anything do you?” he asks, looking worried. I’m a little thrown by his question, although I’m not sure why. Peeta was as gentle as he could be last night, constantly pausing to check if I was okay, if this was what I wanted. Ever since what happened in Thirteen, he’s always conscious of his physical strength around me.

  
I consider his question, but other than a dull ache between my thighs which I can ignore pretty easily, I feel perfectly fine. My muscles usually tense in my sleep from my nightmares and can sometimes feel stiff in the morning, but today I feel oddly rested and relaxed.

  
I shake my head and squeeze his hand for reassurance. I can see in his eyes that he has more questions but I’m not sure if I want to answer them. So before he has the chance to speak I press my lips to his. He responds enthusiastically, pulling my body to his and deepening the kiss. I lose myself in him, pulling him even closer to me if that’s at all possible, and memories of last night flooding my mind. I had been scared of that kind of intimacy for so long, but it had been so easy with Peeta, I didn’t even have to think twice about it. His pauses and check-ins were always met with the same response from me, just as they are now. And like last night, it is Peeta now who breaks away, just far enough so he can look at me. His eyes are intense, the kind of intense that makes me want to bury my head into his shoulder. But I fight all my instincts and match his gaze, letting him decide what he wants this to be.  
Instead of pulling me back in like I expect, his head falls back on the pillow we share. His hand comes up to caress my cheek, his face thoughtful. It’s the face he wears before he’s about to ask a difficult question, or one he thinks I won’t answer.

  
“What is it?” I ask, unsure if I want him to respond. But I made a promise to myself that I wouldn’t keep secrets from Peeta, that he deserved the truth no matter how hard the question was for me to deal with. After all he’s been through he deserves to know everything about who he was and what we were, even if I’m still unsure myself.

  
“You love me. Real or not real?”

  
I expect to be overwhelmed, angry, upset or even startled by this question. It’s one for so many weeks I dreaded would come up, one that played in my head how I would respond over and over. So many times it ended with us fighting and me shouting at him. Peeta finally realizing who I truly I am, a cold evil mutt, and never returning.

  
But none of that happens. Instead I feel a wave of calm roll over me. Because I know the answer to his question, have done for longer than I like to admit. It wasn’t a case of falling for him again; it was simply opening myself up to the feelings I had long since buried, allowing myself to slowly but surely realize all the things I had grown to love about him. His kind smile. His strong but gentle hands. The way his curls fall across his forehead. How he whistles when he’s happy. The way his brow furrows when he’s concentrating. His bad, out of tune singing that he only does in the shower when he thinks I can’t hear. How safe his arms make me feel, how his words always have the power to soothe me even on my worst nights. How despite the cruelty of his mother he still manages to be positive and find beauty in our world.

  
I look at him now, bathed in the sunlight streaming in through our open window. His curls are messy and all over the place, partially from sleep and partially from my hands that couldn’t keep out of them last night. There’s a hint of stubble along his jaw that he’ll no doubt shave later this morning. His eyelashes, which have always fascinated me, glow in the light of the sun, impossibly long and tangled. His pale skin is a patchwork of colors like mine, and scars that I never ask about adorn his torso and back. In this moment he looks so raw and damaged and yet so beautiful.

  
I force myself to look straight into his eyes, because after all he’s been through he doesn’t deserve a half-hearted confession. In fact he deserves more than what I am about to give him, he deserves all three words, or a long speech of all the thoughts that just ran through my head, but for now, this will do.

  
“Real,” I tell him, the word echoing throughout the room, bouncing off the walls, clear and true. I hold his gaze, and watch his face go through a whole range of emotions. When I see a flash of uncertainty, I can’t take it, and press my lips to his forehead, his nose, his cheek and his jaw repeating the same word over and over again. Finally I take his hand and press my lips to each finger. “So real.”

  
At this, his face breaks into this biggest smile and he cups my face, bringing my lips back to his, finally. He wraps his arms around me and pulls me on top of him, and just like last night, neither of us pulls away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so you guys know, this scene does not mean this is the end! There should be two more chapters after this. Hope you enjoyed!

**Author's Note:**

> I originally just wrote this as a one shot, but after many late nights it's managed to turn itself into a document of almost 10,000 words! This is the first in a series of what I prefer to think of One Shots rather than chapters as they don't particularly link together, although they will be posted in an order that will make sense. Hopefully I can update once or twice a week. Enjoy!


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